Goodnight Tonight
by bubble-rouge08
Summary: [SMACked] Stella hates hospitals. She's not super woman. [Spoilers mid season3]


_**A/N: Hey all! I have a new SMACked songfic. This is my version of what happened before, during and after Stella told Mac about her HIV scare. Also, this is another challenge from my friend: write something a bit out of character with mentions of Don and Peyton (since she loves Don and doesn't really like Peyton). **_

_**The song is one of my new favorites. If you read closely, it's actually featured in one CSI:NY episode in the second season. Go get your DVDs and play  
"Stuck on You". When Danny leaves Lindsey with the DOA, he goes inside a rehearsal. 'Rough Sects' are playing. **_**This song**__

_**Well actually, the band – sans the drummer – is called **_**The Dollyrots**_**. They have 2 albums on their site ( and this song and the other one played in CSI:NY ("Kick Me to the Curb") is in the album "Eat My Heart Out". Do check the band out; they're pretty cool. **_

_**Oh well, off with the repping and on with the story! Enjoy.**_

_**csinycsinycsinycsiny**_

**GOODNIGHT TONIGHT**

**© CATE**

_Tonight, my darling, I'm waiting_

_Tonight, sleepy, I'm fading_

_Tonight, wish on a shooting star_

_Tonight, I'm wishing for you_

I hate going to hospitals. It always seems so cold, so white, so… I don't know, _lonely_. I could count with my fingers and toes the times when a patient (victim or perp) wakes up in a hospital and ask the closest person around, "Am I in heaven?"

The distinct scent of hospitals bothers me. It's supposed to smell _clean_, disinfected but it's _not_ comforting. The smell of _death_ lingers in the air. The scream of someone in pain in the first curtain, the sound of dripping blood in the ER, the _smell_ of blood whenever a gurney's being rushed across you, the piercing tone of a heart monitor going flat.

It has been 20 minutes of waiting. My doctor was just finishing a previous patient consultation when I came in and told me to wait. I saw a lot of people – kids with fevers and cuts, the elderly with arthritis or rheumatism, yuppies too drunk to even know which end is up – go in and out of the waiting room and the doctors' offices. Oh, I'm sure some of them are in physical pain and/or even psychological pain. But I didn't look like I was in pain.

A little girl of 6 years walked up to me and asked me what's wrong with me. She had a cast on her right arm. "You don't look sick. Are you pregnant?" Her mother's eyebrows shot up. Oh how I wish that were the case. _Pregnant – _something that I would be happy about when it comes out positive. "I'm having this _thing_ removed so I can play with my cats again."

I smiled at her mother. "Well, sweetie… I'm not pregnant," I admitted. "I'm just going in for a test." Which was true. What kind of test, I didn't tell her.

"A test?" she asked, frowning. "I hope you studied hard, miss. The last test I took, I didn't get a star." Her mom was smiling back at me. Then they got called in. But before she went inside with her mom, she turned back to me and said, "I hope you get a gold star on yours."

"Thanks," I said, folding my hands on my lap. The door opened again and finally, it was my doctor. She led me to her office and talked.

"Where do you think you've contracted the diseased blood?" she asked, writing something on my chart. _Contracted_ – it sounded like I _already_ have something. "And when was that?"

"At work… about three or four days ago," I said. "I tend to get sucked into my job that I lose the sense of time." She was looking at me pointedly as if asking what my job was. She's not my usual doctor because the previous one transferred to Chicago last month. "Oh, I work for the NYPD. Crime scene department."

She nodded and went on to writing again. I wasn't liking her very much. "Single, married, in a relationship, widowed?" she asked, all in one breath. "Had any sexual contact lately?"

"Single. No time for anything else, quite frankly," I answered, straight to the point.

"Okay. When was your last _sexual_ contact, Miss Bonasera?" she looked me in the eyes as if it's not a very personal question. "I need to document this so that I could ascertain that _if_ you are indeed a carrier, I could make sure that…" she went on and on about her specialty and such that I zoned it all out.

I sighed and bit my lip. "A year ago and some months," I admitted. "I've been through a very bad relationship with an even worse break-up."

"Jerk?" she asked, again in a flat voice.

She was a beautiful, young doctor. I wish I could say the same for her bedside manner. Okay, if she wants the beef, then I'll give her the cow. "He videotaped us in bed and posted it one the web. Then he stalked me, hit me, and threatened me with a knife, not to mention tying me up in my own bathtub, holding me hostage. And for that, I shot him twice: one in the shoulder and one through the heart," I said with conviction. I saw her wince and look away for a second. "Does it makes you feel better that you're treating a killer?"

She looked back at me, her eyes now softer and more compassionate. "I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Bonasera," she said, taking my hand in hers. For some reason, that felt nice. "It's just that, most of my patients who ask for this test tend to have the same sob story of being in a break-up and then they sleep around, blaming the guys they've slept with." She sighed and continued, "I'm sorry for generalizing."

"No problem, I understand," I said. I've been around the women she'd been talking about enough. "Getting _that_ from a _workplace_ does sound _like that_."

There was an awkward silence for a second or two before she stood up and called a nurse. "She'll help me with your blood work. And while I'm at it, I would want to test for other crazy stuff as well," she said.

"Do whatever you have to do," I answered, rolling my sleeve up. The nurse took a vial of my blood. She left with a smile and the doctor came back in.

"Your results would be out tomorrow. Would you like to pick it up or shall we mail it to you?" she asked, sitting down. Her demeanor was no less icy but her eyes were welcoming.

A part of me just wants to forget this is even happening. Of all the things that could happen to me at my job… _this_? "I'll pick it up," I said after thinking it over. "But could you still place it in an envelope? Seal it?" She nodded and smiled. "Thank you."

She led me back to the lobby and shook my hand. "Do you have anybody with you?" she asked. _How I wish_. I shook my head and looked down. "I understand. This must be hard for you to go through alone. Have you told anyone?"

"A few colleagues who are also doctors," I said. I was shaking at the reality of it all; there I was with a large cut on my arm and an injection mark on the inside of my elbow.

"I see," she said, placing her hand on my shoulder, sensing my distress. "Whatever comes out, you'll be fine. There are a lot of people living with the disease out there and they live for a long time thanks to the meds. We have a great support center and I'm sure… you have a lot of friends who'll be there for you."

"And if it comes out negative?" I inquired. _Hoped._

"Then take this as another safety measure in your job," she smiled. "It's not everyday you get this scare in a crime scene. Take care now." She then went back into her office, leaving me there in the busy lobby.

Once there, I felt someone tug on my pant leg. It was the little girl from the waiting room. "Hi there!" she said in a sad voice. "How was your test?"

She was still wearing the cast. "My test? Oh, I won't know if I have a star until tomorrow," I replied, crouching down to her level. "I thought you're going to have that _thing_ removed."

The little girl sighed, "Yeah. But the doctor said one more month. I fell down the jungle gym." She showed me her arm.

Behind me, her mother said, "She would like it very much if you signed it." She was holding out a black permanent marker to me. "Lily said she likes your hair."

I had to laugh at that. I tend to get that a lot. "Sure, I'd love to do that," I answered. I led them both to the sitting area and Lily held out her arm. She pointed on her palm. "Here?" She nodded. And I wrote:

_Lily, get well soon and I hope you get a lot of stars on your next test. _

_Love, Stella._

Then I drew a big star beside my name. She read it and said, "Stella? Daddy said that's the Es-pan-yole of 'star'. Am I right, Mommy?"

"It's 'estrella', Lily," her mom chuckled. "But it's close."

Lily turned to me and said, "You're lucky to have a star for a name. I'm a flower!" She then danced around the room.

Her mom faced me and took my hand, "Stella, I never saw her this happy ever since she…" she paused and continued, "I recognized you from the papers and TV. You work for the NYPD, yes?" I nodded. "Well, she didn't break her arm from the playground. Her grandfather, my husband's father – we live with him in our apartment. He has this temper whenever he's drunk…" I know it was hard for her to tell this to me. "Is there any place we could reach you?"

I fished out my card and scrawled my mobile phone number on the back. "Any time," I said. She took it and masked a sob.

"Thank you," _Carmen_ whispered. Then she called Lily back, who was still twirling with her song and dance. "Go give Stella a hug, baby."

Lily wrapped her good arm around my neck and said goodbye. She kept on waving with her cast-wrapped arm on her way out. After a few minutes, I went out.

It was late. It was cold. And I was alone. The city does make you feel very insignificant, small… unimportant. It is really the people around you that make you feel important.

I hailed a cab to take me back to my apartment. The streets were, as usual, lined with people on their way home, late for work, working, hanging out. And they always came with someone – a friend, spouse, or partner. That made me feel more alone.

And that got me thinking. Am I really treading this path alone? Or is it just me… who's thinking I'm alone? I was used to putting up this tough girl, big girl front. But inside? I'm fragile. One more reason why it's very hard for me to trust people. Yet, there is _one_ person who has held my fragile inside. _And I wish he were here._

_Holding me sweetly_

_Cozy completely_

_Sweaty like baby's sleep_

_Tonight, tonight with you_

"I was putting a piece of bloody glass into an evidence bag… still wet and it broke. Cut me," I sobbed. "I had no idea at the time that she was HIV positive." I felt like going down to my knees, breaking down and crying. I called _him_ up to meet me at the rooftop of our office building – he was at the middle of his paperwork but he was there no 15 minutes later.

"Stella, why didn't you tell me?" he asked, looking up at me. I immediately closed my eyes, afraid of what I might find in them. Betrayal? Disgust? Pity?

"I thought I could handle it on my own," I finally admitted to him… _and to me_. All these time, I thought I was this Super Woman – can-handle-it-all-by-herself kind of person. But truthfully, I wasn't. "I know there are a lot of people living with AIDS. But I don't think I have the strength to live with that." I was weak. And it's about time that I face that fact. "I don't think I'm brave enough to wait for a cure." I finally met his eyes for confirmation of that.

He was looking down as if he's exasperated. I know he's sick hearing me putting myself down. Yet somewhere inside me told me that I _needed_ that external boost, that _verbal_ encouragement – _validation_. And not just from anybody. But from _him_.

"What is it that you always say to me?" he asked, trying to remember something. Of all the things I _always_ say to him, I'm flattered that one stood out. I was half-expecting him to say something in the lines of, "Stop being such a baby. You're the strongest woman I know," or maybe something as simple as, "You can get through this".

But what he said caught me off-guard. It's one thing that he recalls what I say. It's a totally different thing if he remembers it even if it's in Greek. "You always have the strength. You always have the guts."

I paused for a moment and tried to smile. "Inside," I said back. It's been a while since I said that to him. In fact, not since Claire's memorial. We never found her body but we still held a memorial to honor her. At the end of the service, he and I were left on the front pew of the chapel, crying, remembering, _thinking._

I remember just listening to his troubled breathing, sniffles here and there. It was the first time I saw him cry. All throughout the rescue operation, he was trying to hold it together… barely. Putting on a tough façade for all of us even after the news of Claire's death reached him. Two months after, I went to his house to tell him that Claire's parents were inviting him and myself to a memorial for her.

His voice broke when he said, "I don't think I can, Stella." And there… he started crying, seated on his couch. I was rooted there when he started sobbing. He looked so lost and alone, with his head buried in his hands. "I don't think I have the strength to go. It's like finally saying goodbye to her. I'm not ready," he said through the sobs.

There was only one thing for me left to do. I put my arms around him and rocked him… _comforted him_. I knew that he wouldn't admit it to others about what he really felt. It's during these quiet, private moments when he _really_ felt it. It's in this little living room he felt most alone and most exposed. "Hey… you always have the strength," I whispered amid my own sobs. I started crying when he held onto my arms tightly. My shirt was getting soaked with his tears but I didn't care. "You _always_ have the strength inside." I searched for other words to say but at that moment, silence was all I could muster.

Right at this moment, I could see some similarities to that breakdown moment I had with him. I don't think I'm strong enough to live my life knowing that I have a death sentence working its tenure inside of me. I don't think I'm ready to accept that…

"If you need some time off from work…" he started.

"No," I cut him off before he could play the boss card on me. "I took a blood test. It's negative. But I'm still in that window… until we know for sure if I'm HIV positive. Ten weeks," I continued, trying to keep my cool with the medical stuff. "Right now, the only thing that is keeping me sane is work." And being around people who would accept me. Being around _him_.

Just when I'm ready to run to the edge of the rooftop and get it all over with, his arm reached out to me and encased me in a warm and very comforting hug. "I'm here for you," he whispered against my ear. He pulled me closer to his body. It was only natural for me to place my cheek against his shoulder… just sink into him and hide from the rest of the world in his arms.

"I know," I whispered back. It meant a lot to me that he said that out loud. Actions without words can sometimes go unfelt even if it's genuinely meant. Right now, I'm at that part of my life wherein I need assurance of all things because finally, I got it through my thick skull that there are things that are just out of my control.

"A'right?" he promised once more. I nodded, telling him that I understood. When his other arm wrapped around me that's when I felt my face scrunch up and I just bawled against his shoulder. And like I did before, he simply held me in silence.

_Tonight, my heart you were stealing_

_Tonight, nervous with feeling_

_Tonight, innocent side by side_

_Tonight, I'm dreaming with you_

That moment, there were no virus, no Peyton, no memory of Frankie, and no Detectives Taylor and Bonasera. It was just him and I and the city of New York. My heart was pounding in my chest; I was feeling his own against mine.

I felt my own arms snake around his waist. We held each other like that for what felt like hours but it wasn't really longer than five minutes. The shrill sounds of our phones broke the moment. It sucked us back into reality. "Back to work," he sighed, sounding almost disappointed. I whispered my agreement. I wiped my tears from my face the best I could with my bare hands.

"Here," he said, offering me his handkerchief. I mumbled my thanks before holding the fabric against my face. I couldn't stop myself from inhaling into it. When I looked at him again, he had his hand out. "Let me," he said, weaving his other hand through my curls as if steadying my head. I closed my eyes as I felt the fabric wipe across my eyes, my cheeks, my chin and my nose.

"Thank you," I said again. I'm afraid that throughout this whole ordeal, I would not be able to stop thanking this man. I felt another barrage of tears threaten to escape me but I couldn't let them win this time. "Let's go?"

"Okay," he said, leading me to the elevator with a hand on the small of my back.

Like I said to him earlier, the only thing that's keeping me sane is work. I wanted to do as much, as best as I could. Being the one with the badge made me feel powerful. I get to cock the gun and shoot. I can put criminals into jail. _I kick ass_. A total 180 from what I was feeling before we descended to the 35th floor. Vulnerable, helpless, out of my control… _a victim_. But I know it's just temporary. At the end of the day, I'd shed being _Detective_ Stella Bonasera back to being plain ole Stella. Small little Stella in a big vast city… _alone_.

Halfway through the shift, I entered the break room – I was thankful it was empty – and got myself a bottle of water. It was silent… too silent. It wasn't long after that I found myself in a staring match with the floor. And I didn't notice someone sitting beside me. Subconsciously, I pulled my shift sleeve down to hide the bandage. When I regained my bearings, I realized that he was watching me.

"Why are you hiding it?" he said with concern in his voice. He's not an openly emotional person but I know it's there. "It's not your fault."

"I should've been more careful," I said, my voice shaky. No, I'm _not_ going to cry again. "I should have checked the glass for cracks first before bagging it. I didn't only endanger myself but also the person who's going to process the blood on it. I should have…"

"Asked?" he finished. "Stella, no one there knew that the vic was HIV positive. You were just doing your job. No one can blame you for that." I knew he was making me feel good about myself. He touched my knee that made me look at him. "Whatever happens, I'm sure you'll get through this." He kneaded my knee for a while, trying to widen his usual smile.

I nodded in understanding. He slowly stood and exited the room. I realized thereafter that he only went into the break room to cheer me up. He didn't take anything: no coffee nor water. It made me feel good; made me feel important. By the time another person entered the room – Flack, of all people – I was smiling like a fool. When I didn't give him a reason as to why I was smiling, well… let's just say I didn't hear the end of it.

_Goodnight, my darling, I'm waiting_

_Goodnight, sleepy, I'm fading_

_Goodnight, wished on a shooting star_

_Goodnight, I'm wishing for you_

That night was the first full sleep I've had since the accident. It was a dreamless sleep, long, comfortable and I woke up on time, heck, before the alarm clock. I found myself singing in the shower even when I was cleaning my wound. On my way to work, I ordered an extra ham and egg croissant for him.

It was a good morning so far… until I heard the receptionists gossiping on my way to his office. "Did you see Dr. Drisoll in Det. Taylor's office just _right now_?" the blond one said. "On the couch? Having breakfast?" the shorter of the two whispered back. "Duh! When was the last time your boyfriend brought you _strawberries_ and iced coffee for breakfast?" said the taller blond.

Without thinking, my grip on the brown paper bag I was holding tightened. It contained the croissant I bought for him and two packets of catsup; I knew he would like that. But I guess he would like fruits and cream instead. Noticing that I was there, the two girls perked up and smiled at me. "Detective Bonasera, good morning."

"Good morning," I replied to the shorter one. I never could remember their names. "Any messages for me?"

There wasn't any but… "Detective Taylor was looking for you earlier before he bumped into…" the blond, I think her name was Brooke, paused and bit her lip. "I think it was about one of your cases with Detective Messer so maybe you can ask him about it."

Okay, so they think I don't know? It's best if I played along. "Okay… can you tell me where Detective Messer is?" They said he was in the A/V lab but instead of going there, I went to the lockers instead. I shed my coat and stared at my bandage. It was ugly. It was big. I hated it. But it served as a reminder that I'm no super woman. I may not die from a gunshot in the field but I _might_ from _something_ I _got _from the _field._

I kicked the door of my locker closed and got on to work – staying as far away from him as possible. It's just for today. I was still carrying the brown paper bag, in search for either Danny or Don; it's not everyday they get me to buy them something.

"Stella!" Don said, his wide smile brightening up the whole hallway. "Early today, I see. Listen, I got someone down at the precinct…" he paused when I stopped in front of him with my arm stretched out with the bag. "For me?" he said in a mock surprise voice.

"Yes," I chuckled at his expression. "And give me the keys." His baby blue eyes bugs out and, if possible his smile widened some more. "Yes… I'm letting you eat in the car. Just this once."

"Oh God is smiling down at His blue-eyed little boy today," he said as we descended to the parking lot.

I laughed out loud at that. Flack, _little_? Please. That set the mood for me for the whole day. Flack made me laugh for the whole day thus making me forget about what I overheard this morning. He even shouldered the lunch fee he had with Lindsey and me. I didn't get to talk with the boss for that day since Danny closed the other case for us.

I thought when I entered the break room that I was home free. I haven't seen him all day. It's not that I don't want to talk to him; I just don't want to face him because I know that that smile on his face is not because I put it there anymore. He learned to smile again because of me – and now, he doesn't need my help anymore. I don't have that sense of accomplishment anymore.

Peyton Driscoll is a fine woman. They seem to be comfortable with each other. She's good for him. She has a great childhood, education, previous jobs and now, a _great man_.

I was on my way out after a cup of tea when I heard someone come in when I was washing the cup I used. "Since when have you become domestic, Stella? You're a hard woman to find around here," he chuckled, taking his own mug from the dish dryer and filling it with coffee.

"Let's see… hmm," I thought, "thirty plus years of living all by myself. The cups won't wash themselves, you know." We laughed lightly. "What are you still doing here? Waiting for Peyton maybe?"

I half-expected him to stiffen at that. I sensed that he wasn't comfortable talking about that from the first night he told me. But instead of veering away awkwardly from the situation, he put his mug down and chuckled, "No, she already left _hours _ago. I'm here," he paused and made his way to the small fridge we have in the room, took something out and sat across me again, "for _you._" He placed the small transparent container between us. It was the strawberries the receptionists were talking about this morning.

"Huh?" I said, biting my lower lip to keep me from smiling.

"I had Peyton buy me some berries this morning," he explained, opening the container up and holding one piece to the light. It was red and shiny. "I noticed you've been down the past few days that I decided to cheer you up."

"With _strawberries?_" I asked incredulously. My stomach was hurting from holding my laughter in. He was slowly turning pink at the cheeks.

"Look, Stell, if you don't like it, maybe we can have some other thing," he started to babble, clearly embarrassed. "I thought it would cheer you up but I ended up making you feel uneasy."

He began to repack the berries when I stopped him. At this point, I was already laughing hard. He stared at me as I slowly picked up a piece and slipped it into my mouth. "You forgot the champagne, Mac," I silkily said to him with a wink. A few seconds after, we found ourselves laughing.

I stayed away from him the whole day. Thus, I missed _this_. Just goes to show how unreliable office gossip really is. We talked and joked and laughed until we finished the whole box of strawberries. I missed these… these lighter moments with him. Oftentimes, he's this tense man with a hard outer shell. He rarely smiles, much less laugh. But when he's with me, it seems so easy. I can get to him with no effort at all.

_Holding me sweetly_

_Cozy completely_

_Sweaty like baby's sleep_

_Tonight, tonight with you_

He offered to drive me home afterwards. He parked into the one of the slots to my name and I actually invited him to come up. Without any other words, he got out of the car and followed me up. I poured us a glass of water each and I opened up a pack of biscuits for us to share.

"Like I said, Stella," he chuckled with a biscuit in my mouth, "_domestic._" He earned a punch for that.

"Anything you want to watch?" I asked him, handing him the remote control. The cable company gave me a few extra movie channels that I haven't checked out yet.

"I heard 'Rambo' is on again," he explained, settling back against the armrest and flicking through the channels.

"You know, I was kind of nudging for something like… oh I don't know," I decided to ruffle his feathers a little, "Some 'Moulin Rouge' maybe?" I swear, his glare would've killed me. I noticed he stopped channel surfing and it ended up airing 'Troy'. I immediately snatched the remote control from him and he lunged forward to retrieve it from me. "What? I don't mind watching a few hot men battle it out," I laughed when he fell off the couch.

He sighed in defeat and flopped back down. "And I get three woman to look at," he mumbled. I laughed out loud again. It's very unbecoming of him to say that and act this way.

"Look at the bright side," said to him, inching closer to his shoulder and placing my head on it, "the Greeks win."

He placed his chin on my head and chuckled. "I don't understand why you said that but I won't argue with you."

"Good," I said, getting more engrossed in watching Sean Bean and Brad Pitt, "Because it's no use."

Halfway through the movie and the box of biscuits, I felt his arm snake around my shoulder. I've tucked my knees under me and my head remained on his shoulder. When the Trojans rolled the horse through the gates of Troy, my eyes went half-mast. Also, his other hand was resting quietly on my knee. It felt good… _very good_. And with a contented sigh, I slipped into sleep.

I wasn't expecting to wake up beside him the next day but I did. Apparently, we found the couch a comfortable enough place to call it a night. We were stretched lengthwise, his body and my afghan covering me. I was surprised he didn't roll on the floor through the night. Then later, I realized why. If he rolls on the floor, he takes me with him because he had his arms around me. _Tight_.

I snuggled closer to his chest and whilst he was still sleeping, I imagined. What if this were _real_? That we're really together. _Intimate._ Disease or no disease, would he accept me still? The hand on my waist tightened. He's keeping me strong – just like how I kept him strong. After all these, I know that I'll be a stronger Stella.

And it's because of Mac Taylor.

**04/18/2007**


End file.
